The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Vera caught herself staring off into nothing at odd times as she knocked about the shop. Papa was drowning in illegal and dangerous forgeries. Her neighbors were on edge and worried. She was as confused as ever about Brogan Donnelly. She had every reason to be worried as a toad, and yet she was frustrated with herself for being so entirely distracted.

“Ye’re full clutched today, Miss Vera,” Olly said. “What’s worrying you?”

“Nothing.”

“I ain’t bacon-brained.” Olly popped his fists on his hips. “You’re fretting, and I’d guess it’s to do with Mr. Donnelly.”

She’d had to explain to the children why the man they’d known as “Ganor” no longer worked at the shop. That he was, in addition to being dishonest, a murderer, she’d chosen not to spill into their ears.

“We’re well rid of him, and I’m not thinking on him at all,” Vera said.

“What a heap of bung,” Licorice said. “Not having him here ain’t helping nothing, and you’re thinking on him, sure as anything.” She looked toward the back room where Papa was passing the day. “Mr. Sorokin certainly ain’t in better spirits since Mr. Donnelly quit coming.”

If only the little ones knew why that was.

“Mr. Donnelly lied to you lot. Don’t that burn you?”

Olly shrugged. “He gave a wrong name. We’ve all done that.”

Licorice nodded. “You really think Bob’s Your Knuckle is that sprout’s true name?”

“You mean to simply forgive him?” Vera eyed the urchins, unsure which answer she wanted them to give.

“He saved me from being snatched off the street,” Licorice said. “And he never acted like I owed him anything for it, never held it over my head. He helped because that’s what he does. He may’ve lied about his name, but he didn’t lie about who he is.”

“The mad thing is,” Vera said, “I don’t think the two of you are entirely wrong about him.”

“Ain’t nothing mad about it,” Olly insisted. “Smart as whips, we are.”

She couldn’t help a smile. How she adored these two. On those days they spent time at the shop, they filled it with joy.

Sudden commotion out on the street pulled all their attention to the front windows. Voices shouting. What sounded like wood splintering. Thuds. Cracks. Crashes.

Outside was absolute chaos. Peter’s cart had been overturned, and men with clubs were smashing it to splinters. His produce was strewn throughout the street, being crushed underfoot and under carts. Anything salvageable was snatched up.

Vera rushed out. Others were running from their businesses toward the fray. With an elbow and shoulder thrown hard against one of the assailants, Vera managed to knock him down.

Rather than fight back, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He said it again and again, his tone fearful.

“Sorry for what?”

“Didn’t wanna do it.” The man rolled, getting to his feet. “We don’t have a choice. They make us.”

Even the assailants were being forced into this. More blackmail. More extortion.

The man grabbed the arm of the other apparently unwitting ruffian. “That’ll be enough. Cain’t fault us for that much.”

And they rushed off.

Peter was decidedly worse for wear. His lip was bleeding, and a bruise was quickly forming on his jaw. But the look on his face was more worrying than his physical state. Devastation. Absolute devastation.

“I didn’t obey the last note,” he whispered to Vera, looking at the shattered remains of his livelihood. “Wanted me to bust someone up. I wouldn’t do it.”

Mercy. “Bust ’em up like was just done to you?” Vera asked. “Instead of paying money?”

Peter sat on the pavement, slumped and defeated, the exact posture Mr. Overton had assumed when his business had burned. “We ain’t never gonna shake them, Miss Vera. Not ever.”

She’d done her best to help them all, including herself, and she’d failed. Again and again she’d failed.

“This has happened before?” Papa had arrived in the midst of the chaos.

“I’ve told you about this, pápochka. The money for protection. The fire. All of it is connected.”

“I didn’t—” He scratched at his beard. His eyes scanned the wreckage, then shifted to the ashes of the barbershop across the street. “I thought I was keeping us safe.”

“How were you keeping us safe?” she asked.

But he only shook his head and wandered off.

The business owners, street vendors, and locals were there, picking through the piles of broken wood and finding, to Vera’s relief, some salvageable fruits and veg. Even with that unforeseen bit of good luck, their faces made clear how quickly they were losing hope.

She couldn’t fail them again. She wouldn’t.

“Neighbors,” she called out to them. “This is no time to abandon ship. The men what did this were victims of extortion, just as we are. They didn’t want to be part of this. But the Protector, I’m full certain, required it of them.”

“How does that give us hope?” Mrs. Bianchi asked.

“All of this—all of it—depends on the strong-arming and threats working. We loosen even a few links in that chain, and the scheme falls to bits.”

“It’s too big,” Mr. Overton said. “There’re too many links.”

“But most of those links are us.” She spoke with as much firmness and confidence as she could. They needed to be reassured. She needed to find the strength to offer them that. “We can break the chain.”

“Not if they break us first,” Mr. Okeke said.

“If we don’t fight back,” Peter said from where he sat on the pavement, “then they’ve broken us already.” He took an audible breath and stood. “We can’t abandon each other.”

“But we’re just small folks.” Burnt Ricky’s little voice trembled. He crushed the sides of his coat in his tight fists. Few things fretted a child of the streets.

“These big men, with their notes and their threats, cain’t follow through without us,” she said.

Interest flickered.

“If enough of us refuse, their schemes fail.”

“She’s bang up to the mark on this.” Brogan emerged from the crowd and stood beside her. “Breaking the chain is the best chance we have.”

Heaven help her, that we warmed her through. He’d helped with Papa’s trouble. He was still helping her neighbors. He was standing beside her.

“How do we do it?” Mr. Bianchi asked.

Brogan, rather than seizing the reins as so many men would do, deferred to her as naturally as if they’d decided on the arrangement ahead of time. She hadn’t a plan but was formulating one as she spoke. Still, she weren’t entirely without ideas.

“London is a large city,” she said, “and, yet, its boroughs and corners are connected by the people. I was brought up in Southwark and know people there still. We’ve customers in Charing Cross and Westminster I could call on. Peter, I’m certain you know other street vendors who sell in other areas.”

“I do,” he confirmed.

She looked to Brogan. “You and your sister know a few vendors in Covent Garden.”

“That we do.”

Turning back to the crowd, she continued. “Our Olly knows urchins who know every corner and seemingly every person in London. Licorice, Bob’s Your Knuckle, and Burnt Ricky likely know all the rest.”

“We know people in Clerkenwell,” Mr. Bianchi said.

“And I’ve plenty of friends and family in the Rookery,” Mrs. Murphy said.

Mrs. Okeke added her voice. “I’ve people in Bethnal Green and Wapping.”

“We’ve connections,” Vera said. “Those connections have connections. If everyone—or at least enough of everyone—stands their ground against our tormentor, he’ll lose his footing.”

“We can do this,” Brogan said. “I’ve watched as you’ve helped each other. I’ve seen this strength in other corners of London. This challenge can be met. I know it can.”

“We’re fit to this purpose,” Peter said to them all. “I don’t want this”—he motioned to his shattered cart—“to happen again. But if we don’t do something, it will for certain.”

“We all know people outside of Soho,” Mr. Overton said. “If we begin today, we can gather people to the cause in the parishes of London, the poor, the tradesmen, the merchants. We can free ourselves.”

Discussions immediately began among them, comparisons of who they knew and where, decisions about going together or dividing the efforts. They were focused and determined and convinced. They weren’t giving up.

“Do you think we can truly do this?” she asked Brogan out of the side of her mouth.

“You won’t be doing it alone,” he said. “All your neighbors are rallying. And I’ve a few friends who’ll help as well. I’d actually hoped they’d be watching this street already, but organizing takes time.”

“And experience.” Vera sighed. “I haven’t got much of either.”

“You’ve spread hope here today. That’s a powerful thing.”

A familiar and unexpected voice replied, “Not powerful enough.”

She turned at the sound. For the length of a breath, she couldn’t speak. Clare. The one likely delivering the notes. The only undeniable link they had to the Protector.

Clare held out a folded bit of paper. “You might stop this part of his plan, but it’s bigger than you know. It’s bigger than anyone knows.”

“Help us stop him,” Vera pleaded.

She shook her head, still holding out the paper. “I ain’t got a death wish.”

“But you said we could stop this part,” Brogan said. “How?”

“Please take the note. I’m risking too much even talking to you. If he finds out—”

“He?”Brogan repeated. “The Mastiff?”

The Mastiff? Vera thought they’d been talking about the Protector.

“He times me. If I return late—” Clare visibly shuttered. “Take the note. Please.”

“We can protect you,” Vera said.

Clare shook her head. “No one can be protected from a storm this large.” Apparently giving up on Vera taking the note, she shoved it awkwardly into Brogan’s outercoat pocket, and rushed off.

“Who is the Mastiff?” Vera asked.

“Explaining that requires I tell you what I’ve discovered about Clare.”

“What did you discover?”

“I’ve a friend who knows her, but as ‘Serena.’”

Another person with a false name?

“Serena works—or worked—as a housekeeper for a man known as the Mastiff, a criminal mastermind with connections throughout London. He’s beyond dangerous. Even the police are afraid of him.”

That was not the sort of discovery to put a person’s mind at ease.

“She might very well work for him still,” Brogan continued. “One of the Mastiff’s cronies, Four-Finger Mike, has a taste for arson.”

“Four-Finger Mike?” Mercy. “Albie, at the embassy, mentioned one of the men didn’t have all his fingers.”

Brogan nodded. “I’m certain it’s the same man. The same men. The Protector is likely part of their criminal circle.”

“Laws,” she muttered. “The extortion here is connected to the forgeries and blackmail.”

“Seems that way.”

Vera pressed her fingertips against her temples. “I may have just sent my neighbors into a battle we cannot win.”

Brogan set a hand gently on her arm. “I think Clare is right about one important thing: we’ve a good chance of beating him in this. ’Twon’t solve every problem in London, not even all the ones he’s causing. But you will have assembled an army of eyes and ears on the streets. That is the best defense.”

With a sigh, she motioned to Brogan’s pocket. Though she weren’t eager to hear the latest demand, she knew better than to ignore it. “What’s the note say?”

Brogan pulled it out and unfolded it. “The children are too often alone,” he read aloud. His brow jumped skyward just as the reality of what the note meant struck her with horror.

They both turned toward the shop in near-perfect unison. He called out “Licorice!” just as she shouted “Olly!” They rushed inside.

Both children were huddled over a copy of Mr. King’s latest installment and looked up with confusion and a touch of annoyance at the interruption. Even seeing them safe didn’t set Vera’s heart at ease. They were in danger. There was no doubt they were. Even if she vowed never to take her eyes off them, that wouldn’t guarantee they’d not momentarily slip from view. Another mess like they’d had that day would create enough confusion that she’d easily lose sight of them. What if more ruffians came around? Maybe even armed?

“We can hide them,” Brogan said.

“They’re born and raised on the streets.” Vera pushed out a breath. “They’d shrivel up if forced into hiding.”

“It’d only be temporary. And it’d safeguard them.”

“No one can be protected from a storm this large.”

Papa stepped up beside Brogan. He didn’t speak a word, but simply snatched the note from Brogan’s hand and silently read it. Papa’d shown himself all-too-willing to relent in matters of the Mastiff’s blackmail. He might regret the children being pulled into the trouble, but she weren’t at all certain he’d intervene.

He readjusted his glasses, then placed the paper back in Brogan’s hand. He looked only at the children. “Licorice. Olly. Fetch your coats and scarves.”

His was not a tone that allowed for debate. The children didn’t attempt any.

“Pápochka?”

With little ears out of earshot, he spoke quickly and forcefully. “Lead your army, kotik.” To Brogan he said, “Help her.” To them both, “I will keep the children safe. The sender of these notes will have no idea where we are.”

“You can disappear so quickly? So entirely?” Brogan asked.

With set jaw, he said, “I’ve done it before. The tsar himself couldn’t find the people I’ve hidden, people who are living full lives, not cowering in corners or caves. The children will be safe. I swear to you.”

“What do you mean you’ve hidden people?” she asked. “Hidden them from the tsar?”

“The Circle, Vera. I hid members of the Circle.”

“The people who betrayed you?” They’d always spoken of that part of their lives in whispers. She did so now.

“I was not falsely accused by them; I was one of them.”

Shock silenced her.

“I gave a number of them forged identification papers, which allowed them to escape, to hide, to never be discovered. They, and the exiles I have hidden since, have never been uncovered by their enemies.”

“But why—you said—” She shook her head, unable to make sense of it. This wasn’t what she’d always been told of their past.

“That I was connected with them was known, and that connection was strongest in the area of their writings, which I printed.” Papa ran a hand down his beard. “Shaking off all suspicion depended upon a reputation for distrusting, disliking, and even being disgusted by writers in particular.”

“It was a lie?”

“An absolutely necessary one,” he said. “I was hiding us as well.”

“You were one of them?” She could not reconcile it.

“The Circle was a varied group. Writers. Revolutionaries. Intellectuals. Even printers.”

For years, he had left off this part of his explanations. “But your name does not appear on the lists of the members.”

“It does,” he said firmly. “After a manner.”

“Oh, saints.” The words whooshed from Brogan. “Sorokin isn’t your true surname.”

Papa adjusted his spectacles. “The less said on that the better.”

Criminy. Vera was almost too overwhelmed to think, to understand what was being said.

“The Circle aren’t the only ones I’ve hidden away. Didn’t you ever wonder how it was I had so many printing consultations, but the shop was still struggling?”

“They weren’t customers.” She realized the truth even as she spoke it.

The children emerged from the back room, their coats on, and the scarves Brogan had gifted them wrapped around their necks.

“I’ll keep the little ones safe,” Papa promised once more. “Save our neighbors.” He looked to Brogan. “And, whatever you do, get the letter and the list out of Chelmsford’s house. That scheme must be stopped.”

On that shocking last request, Papa took a child’s hand in each of his and left without another word or glance.

“Merciful heavens.” Vera pressed her hands to either side of her face. “What next?”

Brogan took a step closer and leaned in, his nearness warming her. “If you’re willing to help, I believe we can manage your da’s request.”

She looked to him. “How in heaven’s name do we sneak forged documents out of the private residence of a former Lord High Chancellor?”

He tossed out one of his half-formed, eye-twinkling smiles. “Very carefully.”